


Loved and Were Loved

by HotPriest



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, F/M, Moving On, Post canon, at least tormented in the sort of way Fleabag canonically is, it's open ended at the moment but, possible fix-it, possible slow burn too, this will probably be minorly angsty for a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotPriest/pseuds/HotPriest
Summary: A year after the events of the bus stop, Fleabag finds herself doing a favour for Claire that throws her back into the midst of it all.
Relationships: Claire/Klare (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	Loved and Were Loved

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s another Fleabag fic that was written for the same reason the other one shot was- more or less as catharsis. It’ll be a multi-chapter one, though how many specifically, I have no idea. The title was suggested by my lovely friend, Catstrophysics, and comes from the poem ‘In Flanders Fields’ by John McCrae. They are brilliant and have inspired me to begin writing again.
> 
> Please enjoy it, and I apologise once again for any mistakes.

There’s no expectation or reason for Fleabag to see him again. Religion has never been a priority of hers, and if she suddenly started attending church now it’s more likely that her family would be concerned about that than any other lifestyle changes she could choose to make. Existential religious crisis and all. So staying out of the Priest’s way after his choice is easy, even if it is painful. She takes it an extra, uncharacteristically precautious step further, careful to avoid any common grounds or places they had gone to together.

Not that she can see herself making another stop at the quaker meeting house any time soon anyway.

But she continues like that for a year. The café does well, really well, and she eventually hires some additional staff for it. In a way she finally feels like a proper business woman seeing her dream and investment all grown up, practically running itself, and wonders how Boo would feel about it all if she were here. The guilt she feels over Boo's memory is quickly pushed aside for better, brighter things. She would be happy for her, she thinks. Boo had always been the kinder, more generous, and forgiving of the both of them. She's finally managed to make peace with herself and she thinks that Boo would be proud, not only of the café, but also of her progress.

She smiles to herself.

She does that more these days.

Hiring help for the café has also meant that she can take time off to go see Claire in Finland more frequently. It’s just as she’s described it in the past; cold, dark, miserable. And she genuinely seems fucking thrilled about it. Claire's happiness is obvious, especially whenever she’s with Klare. She waits eagerly for the day they declare (get it, _clare_ ,) their engagement- it’s bound to come soon, she can see it in the way they stare at each other from across the dinner table. They just look so pleased together, something she had never really seen when Claire had been with Martin. She's happy for her sister, too, but can’t help but be a bit jealous at the same time. 

Eventually the announcement her entire family has been waiting for comes. It’s one tiny note that comes in the post- a letter requesting her presence for whenever the wedding is to be set. There’s no firm date, not yet, but Claire and Klare have mutually decided to have the wedding in England in light of the choice of calling Finland their home once they’re all settled. It’s only after she receives the invitation that Claire asks for her help in a sensitive matter. It’s not really like her to beat around the bush, so after a minute of yelling down the phone at her to spit it out, she finally does.

Claire needs her younger sister to go to the church and check the availability for both the venue and the Priest.

The silence on her end feels like forever, and Claire takes this as an opportunity to tell her how busy she is and that she has to go, and by the time she figures out how to speak again she’s already gone.

She attempts to ring her back but Claire doesn’t pick up.

Rude.

Instead, she resorts to sending a string of texts her way, which she finally responds to about five minutes later. She knew that would get her attention, even if only because she can’t stand to leave the little notifications that pop up unread. It’s for cases like this that she's never told her you can just mark messages as read manually. One day she’ll tell her. Maybe.

Arguing with her proves to be futile anyway. She’s surprisingly sentimental about the church considering it’s where the two sisters had both been baptized, where their Mum and Dad had gotten married, and where the funeral for their late mother had been. The moment Claire brings up their mother she knows she’s won. Any desire to avoid the Priest is replaced by the younger sister's and Claire’s mutual love for their mum. The conversation dies there, and Fleabag doesn’t respond. She knows that the silence will be a clear enough response for her sister.

You know what they say about there being no time like the present? She's pretty sure that the full saying is ‘there’s no time like the present to suck it up and face your fears so they’re over with sooner rather than later’. It’s for that reason she puts on a coat almost immediately to go out in the bitter winter cold. The less time she has to think about it, the less anxious she’ll be by the time she gets there, hopefully.

Part of her resents Claire for pushing her towards the church to book the Priest to officiate the wedding. And part of her is thanking her sister for giving her a valid reason to set foot in those hallowed halls again. When she finally arrives she's careful to make sure there is no service taking place. The sense of calm she feels is familiar and so, so entirely bizarre. Even though she has never considered herself a religious person, there has always been something so breathtakingly beautiful about the architecture and tranquility of a good church. No one would ever guess that the busy streets of London are just outside that heavy wooden door.

When she hears the clatter of metal against the stone ground echoing from the back of the church she smiles and makes her way down the center aisle. It could be Pam or him, but either way, she knows she’ll be seeing the latter soon enough. She makes her peace with this fact and takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the moment she finally sees him again, wondering if he’ll make her forget even her own name the way he had before. However when the person in question comes into view, standing up and carrying the chalice that must’ve been what dropped to the ground, she stops, confused. It’s a priest, yes, that much is obvious. But it’s not _her_ priest. The man standing at the altar is definitely an older gentleman, shorter and stockier, brown hair broken up by strands of silver, and deep crow’s feet outlining either side of his blue eyes.

“Where’s Father-” she starts, but the man before her smiles and puts his hand up apologetically interrupting the young woman with a sad smile. He reminds her of him in a way, and not just because of the dog collar around his neck.

“Gone. Back to Ireland for almost a whole year now. You’re not the first person to ask after him and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last. I heard that he’d left in quite the hurry. But don’t worry, he’s doing well from what I know. He was well loved in the parish, it seems.” The sympathy and pity the words of the older gentleman conveys is worse than any scenario she could have imagined.

For a moment she stands there in a stunned silence, unsure of how to proceed. Instinctively, she looks back at the confessional behind her, memories flooding back of when she had sat in its wooden confines, pouring her heart out to the man she loves, terrified that he would reject her for lying to him the first time they had met. But instead that had been the night that changed everything for a both of them, and no matter how temporarily, for the better. With a sharp intake of breath, she turns her attention back to the older priest in front of her. All of the sudden it’s impossible to breathe, and she realises she has no hope in asking him about availability for weddings in the state she's in now. Being back in that church without him is too much, even though she had avoided it for so long out of the fear of seeing him.

A pathetic excuse falls from her lips, something about having left the cat on with _50 Shades of Grey_ playing on the television. She doesn’t even have a cat, and even if she did, nothing would be able to make her hate it so much that she'd have it endure that film. Her embarrassment and attempted humour does nothing to mask the grief she feels all over again though, as if it is a new open wound. The man that replaced him will never realise how true his words are.

_Well loved._

Of course, he had been. How could anyone not love him?

She leaves the church as quickly as she had that one fateful night when she had kissed the Priest, numb fingers fumbling in the cold winter air and through her various coat pockets for a cigarette. The young woman finally manages to procure one successfully and light it with more merciful ease than she had found it. Briefly, taking the bus seems to be a good option, but she quickly changes her mind in favour of walking home instead. The walk will do her well and allow her time to think anyway.

At least that’s what she tells herself. She doesn’t think she could stand waiting at a fucking bus stop for one minute right now.

The walk back home feels more like a trek, the cold and sudden rain only contributing to the sentiment. Still, not even that can make her regret choosing to walk instead of waiting for the bus. About halfway home she stomps out her cigarette, remembering her promise to herself to attempt breaking bad habits and getting stuck with other, better ones. She decides to start the better habits part by also picking up the cigarette and binning it as well. For a brief moment she had assumed that seeing the Priest again would have thrown her off track once more, stopping and reversing all the progress she had fought so hard to make in improving her life. 

Yet as it turns out, it’s not seeing him that has broken her all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps not what you were expecting, but don’t worry, the surprise will be resolved in the next chapter. Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading! Also for the purposes of this fic, we’re pretending that the funeral for their mum was definitely at the same church the Priest did his sermons at.


End file.
